Through Golden Eyes
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: What if Arthur hadn't been completely unconscious when Merlin tried to heal him outside the crystal cave? What if he had heard Merlin using magic spells and realized the truth about his faithful servant...? The Crystal Cave AU. NO SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

_As stated in the summary, this is an Alternate Universe fic of _The Crystal Cave_, Episode Five of Season Three, in which Arthur discovers Merlin's secret. *cue Beethoven's Fifth*  
Keep in mind this is just one setting that this could happen; I made it at the Crystal Cave specifically because I like the old sorcerer. He was cool, man.  
I hope you enjoy! And excuse errors. I have no beta. Obviously._

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**Chapter I**

Arthur could scarcely breathe.

It was not for the pain that this was so, though there was much of that, certainly, searing in him like white-hot flames; they licked at his back, where he could feel warmth pouring out of him from a hole which seemed the size of a boulder. He knew what that warmth was; it was his life's blood, draining away from him, and he was powerless to stop it. He was powerless to do anything at all, even so much as open his eyes. That did not stop his feeling, however, for though his mind was dull and sluggish with nausea and pain, he was aware of every sensation that took hold of his body. He had even felt it, dimly, when Merlin removed the arrow, unaware as the servant was that his master was screaming in his mind as it slid out of him.

Now, he could feel the fever ravaging him, as the infection began to do its work. He could feel himself shivering, sending more sparks of agony up and down his spine, from the wound to every nerve of his body, and back again.

He was dying. He knew that much.

As he lay there, trapped in his own mind where he knew of nothing outside the fever and agony, he thought to himself how utterly dishonorable it was to die this way. After all he had survived, over all he had been the victor, to be remembered as Prince Arthur of Camelot, son of the feared King Uther, the boy who got lost in the woods, was shot in the back by feeble bandits, and died on the damp forest floor was _not_ something he wished to be written in the records for all future generations.

Gradually, he became aware of other sensations—movement around him. Footsteps, light and quick. Merlin, he realized with a start; he had forgotten the boy was even here with him. Everything seemed so distant now, like he was floating beneath the waves of a deep and dark river, unable to reach the surface for his immobility, and the rest of reality was on the shore, far above him. And getting farther.

There was voice reaching him; the words themselves ran together, muffled, but the gentle rises and falls of the tone were unmistakable.

He wanted to answer, to tell Merlin to stop _talking_ and start _helping_, but his own voice would not even so much as rise in his chest before dying again.

The sounds started to become closer, louder, and he felt something slick and hot and somewhat disgusting, like marshy leaves during the summertime, press against his forehead. Merlin was treating him, he knew, trying to force away the shock overwhelming his wounded body and make him well again.

More words, barely trembling and hushed. He could understand them, but somehow he still knew that it meant nothing good, that he was not coming back. It was almost as though he was fading away, and all the feelings of pain and sickness dwindling into numbness, so he might hear and feel the world clearly for his last moments of his life.

"Come on." A whisper.

"Dollophead." Louder.

For one second, he craved with every fibre of his being to have mobility of his arm for one last time, so that he might have the pleasure of slapping the back of Merlin's head for calling him a _dollophead_ in his final minutes of life.

A hand, cool and firm, tapping his cheek lightly.

"I need you to recover," Merlin's voice said from somewhere in front of him.

He wished he could say precisely what he wanted to that; what did Merlin think? That he desired for his servant to watch him die?

_Idiot_, he thought in the most lucid portion of his brain.

Then, there was a silence—a heavy, meditative silence. Even in his present state, he could feel the sudden deepness of Merlin's thoughts, as though the gravity of them radiated from his lean frame in waves. He did not understand it. He had never seen Merlin so grave before; he couldn't even envision his pale face looking as contemplative as the silence gave testament he was.

What was happening? he wondered, slightly panicked. Could his servant see how quickly he was slipping away? Was Merlin choosing whether he should continue to tire himself by treating his master or admit defeat instead, and allow him to perish? Was the thinking of leaving him and returning to Camelot for aid? He knew he would never survive that long all alone….

A dozen possibilities of what would happen thereafter raced each other through his fever-wrought mind. Not one of them had been accurate, as he discovered a moment later.

He felt Merlin's steady hand upon his shoulder, turning him so that he rolled more upon his front. He heard the slight tinkling of his armor as it shifted. Then, the burning hiss of stinging pain once again invaded his consciousness as he felt something warm cover the open wound through his tunic.

A hand. Merlin's hand. He was struggling for lucidity, diminishing as he was so rapidly that he did not even realize he'd already faded considerably into the sweet call of unconsciousness. In his mind, he instinctively clutched onto the feel of the long fingers against his back and willed himself to remain fixed upon it; if he could continue to use Merlin's touch as a means of grounding himself, then perhaps he could retain his strength long enough to fight the battle with his own betraying body.

The fingers flexed, the palm flattening, pushing steadily against his wound. Familiar fires of agony roared when that pressure was applied so forcibly. He was almost grateful for it; the pain kept him aware of his plight. Merlin pushed harder. That was too much, Merlin, he wanted to reprimand, too much pain all at once….It made him wish for the numbness of oblivion…._What was Merlin doing?_

Then, he was pulled into his former clarity by two strange words—words which shattered everything else in mere seconds and became his only awareness.

"_Purhhaele dolgbenn."_(1)

And his heart stopped.

It was Merlin's voice. He knew it was. He could identify his servant's voice in a sea of others.

Then again, it…_wasn't_. Merlin's voice was not so low and controlled, did not sound so very weighty and treacherous. His voice did not have an indescribable, underlying hiss, nor did it raise the hairs on Arthur's neck by its sheer power. More certainly than all, his foolish servant's prattling voice _did not_ recite spells of magic.

That is what this was. He knew it with all his heart and mind. It was magic.

A misinterpretation, he told himself, a hallucination. Product of his fever and pain and fear. Nothing more. Not real, not Merlin….

Then, from another brief silence, while his mind whirled with sickness and confusion,

"Listen to me, clotpole. I don't care if you die; there are plenty of other princes. You're not the only pompous, supercilious, condescending, royal imbecile I could work for. The world is full of them. But…we'll give it one more chance."

Relief. _That_ was the Merlin he knew. That was _his_ Merlin. The mad, honest, sardonic, resolute, gentle Merlin who never disappointed or bored him, who never gave him undue respect for his title alone, who never had given reason at all for Arthur to mistrust him. This was the Merlin who never, never would fall into the wretched black pit of sorcery. Not his Merlin; his Merlin was too wise for that, too strong, too _good_ to be defiled by it.

He felt the horror drain from him, and his mind eased as he felt Merlin touch him again; he welcomed the touch, for this was Merlin, and Merlin was not leaving him, and Merlin was all the pure and blameless boy he had always been. Perhaps that was why Arthur had grown so very fond of him. The world changed, became darker, colder, different…but Merlin never did. Merlin was the one constant he had in a circle of shifting shadows and cutting lies. He was untouched by evil, guided always by his selflessness and compassion, untainted by greed or hate or any of the iniquities of the rest of mankind.

Merlin was his only faithful light. Even now, at the end of everything, when nothing else remained but the darkness closing in around him, Merlin was there with him, as he had always been since the day of their meeting, never failing, never changing.

Merlin spoke again, wrenching Arthur from his mind's wanderings and back into reality. The words which reached him were no more ones of comfort, or of sorrow, or resolve, as he expected.

His blood ran cold at the horribly grating, fearful snarl which seemed more suitable coming from the throat of a demon of Hell than his faithful and valued servant.

"_Licsar gestapol nu!__"_

So shaken was he, that he could not even form a coherent thought in his mind. All thoughts of comfort and security reversed, he was driven farther into that abysmal darkness than he had ever been.

There was no denying it now. Merlin was a sorcerer—an evil, corrupted practitioner of the black arts. Everything Arthur had known, everything he had been trusting so irrevocably for so long, was gone. Merlin, his pure-hearted Merlin, was a liar, and a deceiver of the worst kind. What more was there he did not know? Could Merlin have been responsible for any of the misfortunes that had befallen them over time? The curses and spells and terrors that had come to the Pendragon castle and to Camelot for these years, could they have been product of this guttural, wicked voice arising from his servant's throat?

Any of them could have been Merlin's doing, he realized, and for the first time since he was a child, he wanted only to weep alone in a corner.

Merlin, for all his supposed sincerity and kind understanding and uncomplicated rareness, was no better than the wretched street witch who had tried to kill him at the beginning of their companionship. (2)

Arthur felt sick, and broken, and welcomed the blessed darkness that lured him.

The last thing he knew before all was lost upon him was the feel of Merlin's hand—wet with his own blood—pushing a strand of hair from his damp forehead.

**To be continued**

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(1) I know anyone who writes for Merlin probably needs/would like to know how to write each of his famous spells. Took me a few wrong clicks, but I found a guide for every spell in each show through Season Three for anyone who needs/wants it. h t t p : / / m e r l i n . w i k i a . c o m / w i k i / S p e l l s. (Because of FanFic's ridiculous rules, I had to put a space between each letter/symbol, so just join them together and search it.) You may thank me with reviews.

(2) Reference to _The Dragon's Call_, Season 1, Episode 1.


	2. Chapter 2

_I vowed that I wouldn't post the second chapter until I got three reviews, which might take days...and here I've gotten six within a few hours! As a thank-you, Chapter Two is now here. Three is done too, but still needs a bit of editing. Sadly, I don't know what I'll be able to post it, as I'm going to Germany tomorrow (speaking of which, I should probably go to sleep *hehe*) and will be gone for two weeks.  
That doesn't mean you should not give me all the reviews you can, however. *clears throat* _

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**Chapter II**

When Arthur opened his eyes, he believed himself to be dead.

He was lying on soft ground, gazing above him at the flaming orange of an evening sky past the twisted labyrinth of blossoming tree branches. The world moved slowly around him—a leaf tumbling unhurriedly to the forest floor, a sparrow gliding high on the gentle breeze. There was not a sound in his ears…but more markedly, there was not a slight twinge of pain in his body any longer.

He remained as he was, content to be still and silent for as long as his soul would linger here.

Then, the snap of a twig.

Arthur leapt to his feet before he could consider his actions, reaching for the nonexistent sword at his side.

It was then that he saw the unlit pyre, now only charred wood, having long-since burnt out. His trained eyes caught sight of footsteps in the wet earth, leading away toward the north. There were two sets of them, he realized. Two men. Who?

He had not the time to wonder, for from behind a near oak stepped an aged man in an old robe. The man regarded him almost curiously, as if awaiting Arthur to move.

"Who are you?" the prince demanded.

"My name is Taliesin," said the old man without trepidation or indecision, "and you are Prince Arthur of Camelot."

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Yes," he replied. "What do you want with me?"

"Young prince," Taliesin said with a hint of irony, "it is you who wandered into my path, not I into yours. Come, if you would like to find your friend."

"Friend?" Arthur tried to reflect back. What had he been doing? With whom had he been?

Then, as the wave from a furious sea, he remembered. Running desperately into the Valley of the Fallen Kings—running from vicious and greedy bandits; a force striking his back and throwing him forward onto the ground, but no pain. Then, arms around him…thin arms, lifting him, then his dropping and a flash of agony through his spine. Darkness. A voice—whose voice? What was this ghastly thing he knew had been said?

"_Purhhaele dolgbenn.__"_

"_Licsar gestapol un!"_

One word pushing itself to the forefront of his mind. _Sorcerer._ Merlin was a sorcerer.

The stinging betrayal was accompanied by something else now. Rage. Pure, unadulterated fury rose powerfully within his chest, cutting his breath from him for a moment, before he swallowed it and forced the violent intentions from his present mind. There would be time later to deal with this, these wicked deceptions and the treachery they entailed.

No matter what punishment Merlin received for his lies, Arthur knew that the agony he could feel deep within his soul would never fade. In all the brutal untruths others had ever used to trick him, none were as painful and deep-cutting as this.

"Do you know where he is?" he pressed the old man, forcibly keeping the growl from his voice.

Even so, it was as if Taliesin could see his wrath and distress, without looking upon the prince's outward demeanor.

"You will do no harm to him, young prince," said he, and it was not an inquiry or even a request, but an instruction. "Before you allow your hurt to blind you, remember that you do not fathom the young Emrys' reasons for any of his deeds. His motives are not what you believe."

Arthur took a moment to sort out the old man's words.

"How do you know of Merlin?" he demanded, wondering, in some irrational part of himself, if everyone but him had been aware of Merlin's dark secret.

Taliesin's face only softened in answer, and he held one steady hand out.

"Come, young Arthur, and you will see and know."

Arthur hesitated, then stepped forward, understanding that he had little choice.

They walked in silence for a short journey, Taliesin leading as Arthur followed blindly through the woods. The old man seemed to know precisely where he went, though to Arthur's knowledge there was not a home or building anywhere in this wilderness.

He soon discovered that he was correct, for the bearded man led him to the narrow entrance of a mossy rock cave.

"Enter, prince," was his only command, and though Arthur was never pleased to be ordered about, he did as Taliesin said.

He stepped through, and found himself in a place the likes of which he had never imagined in his dreams.

Crystals, clear as glass but somehow glowing like white stars, protruded from every direction. Large and small jutted forth from the ceiling, the walls, and the floor, gathered in clusters like a well-groomed garden of them. It seemed, illogically, that they all seemed to be watching him as he entered their domain.

"What is this? Why am I here?" Arthur inquired of Taliesin, as a strange feeling crept into his stomach.

"This is the Crystal Cave," answered the man. "It is the place where magic itself was born into our world."

Arthur resisted the urge to shudder at the thought of being within the source of so much loss of life in his father's kingdom. What sort of evils had been released upon the world through these glaring crystals?

"It is here that I received the power to heal your wound, young man," said Taliesin's voice from behind him, almost like a reprimand for his thoughts.

Arthur rolled his shoulders, realizing sudden that, indeed, his excruciating injury was gone, with only a trivial bruise in its place.

He turned to face the old man once again, determined to receive the answers he sought.

"What of Merlin?" He could not stop the malicious emphasis on his now former servant's name.

Taliesin regarded him with that oddly inquisitive look again, as though knowing something Arthur did not, and waved for him to follow.

Arthur was led around structures of the crystals as tall as himself, and beyond all reason, he was careful to avoid coming within inches of any of them. He feared them, and for what reason he knew not.

"There," said Taliesin, and Arthur followed his gaze to where a thin figure lay curled upon his side, his back pressed against the cave wall and his gentle face peaceful with sleep.

For a moment, Arthur forgot his anger at the sight of him. The next instant, however, his loathing returned two-fold.

"I told you," Taliesin's strange tone forced him to pull his eyes away from Merlin, "that this cave is the birthplace of magic. Emrys is its greatest creation. It forced too much of its power into him; it overwhelmed him into unconsciousness. He will awaken soon." (1)

Arthur gritted his teeth and thought for one long moment. Taliesin remained silent, merely watching him, as it seemed all the crystals around him were doing as well—awaiting his decision.

At long last, the prince looked up and met the calm gaze of the ancient sorcerer.

"When he does," said he in a voice like stone and with eyes like flint, "tell him never to return to Camelot again, if he values his life. I shall not have a lying _sorcerer_ as my servant. Inform him that, should I ever set eyes upon him again, I will not hesitate to have him executed where he stands. Remind him that I am showing mercy."

With that, he turned with his back to Merlin's slumbering form.

Taliesin gripped his arm as he passed, halting him in his step. Brown eyes met blue, and the old sorcerer could see Arthur within as clearly as without. Past the betrayal and anger and sense of duty, he could see the clouds building behind his sapphire eyes—clouds of loss and regret, of love and sorrow. Of goodbye.

Two sides of the same coin; it had been prophesized since the beginning of magic. Surely one half could never be happy without the other, once they have found each other.

"You know not what you do, young prince," he said as gently as a loving father. "To banish the boy from Camelot and from yourself would be a terrible mistake. He needs you, as you need him."

Arthur tried to pull his arm away, but the overpowering strength of the old man was staggering and uncontested.

"I will not have you speak to me in such a way, old man," he spat. "Be grateful that I am not condemning you to execution, as our laws require. My only reason for this is that you saved my life and I owe you a debt for it."

"You owe me nothing," corrected Taliesin firmly, tightening his grip almost painfully around Arthur's wrist. "I have not saved your life. You owe a debt to your creator and no one else, and you will pay it someday when Death takes you. That day will arrive sooner than you imagine if you continue in the state of mind which your father has forced upon you."

"I have reached this state of mind of my own will," replied Arthur evenly, still attempting to free himself of the man's grip. "My father only told me of what sorcerers are capable; I have seen evidence of it with my own eyes."

Taliesin looked upon him with compassion in his old eyes.

"You have seen but one function of magic, boy." His voice was soft now, calming. "Think of Guinevere, and then of the bandit who wounded you so carelessly."

Arthur's glare visibly softened at the thought of his love.

"These are two functions of human spirit," said Taliesin, easing his grasp upon Arthur's arm. "One overcomes the cruelty and selfishness of the flesh, and the other submits to it willingly. There are more like the bandit in the world than there are persons like your Guinevere, but surely you do not have every man and women executed because some may be inclined to kill?"

Arthur refused to look upon the man's face, fixing his gaze upon a crystal and clenching his jaw unwaveringly, but he did not argue.

"And is not the good—however scarce it is—more worth your attentions than the evil?"

"What would you have me do, old man?" Arthur finally uttered, returning his heated gaze to Taliesin's face. "Shall I take him back to Camelot and allow him to serve me as always, when I have seen how magic can corrupt even the strongest of men over time? Shall I simply hope that Merlin's magic does not doom him to be a murderer, as it has all other sorcerers I have ever encountered?"

"You know that he is not evil, but you cannot see the truth in your heart for all the doubts and distrusts surrounding it," Taliesin told him. "Surely you must recall that there has never been a time when he has tried harming you."

"How can I know that? When has he used his power without my being aware of it? Was it when I was fighting in tournament, and I acted out of my character and made a mistake that nearly cost me my very life? How can I know that it was not Merlin's attempting to get me killed, and doing so secretly and deceptively?"

Arthur was aware that he was speaking too freely before this stranger—and a sorcerer, at that—but he could not stop the words' coming. This battle with himself was too strong to contain within.

Taliesin's eyes widened beneath his graying brows, and then alighted, as if comprehending something very important for the first time.

"Come, young prince."

Arthur wondered, briefly, why Taliesin bothered to give the command, when he had the strength to pull him back to where Merlin lay, even when Arthur was fighting against him with all his might.

"I command you to release me this instant, sorcerer!" he shouted at him, using his other hand to strike repeatedly at the old man's arm.

Taliesin acted as though he had neither heard not felt any of it.

"I shall have you executed!" Arthur warned, and still Taliesin did not react.

The old sorcerer shoved Arthur to the floor, still not releasing his hand, and the prince found himself leaning beside Merlin's still-unconscious form. The boy's jaw was slack, his lips slightly parted, entirely oblivious as he was to all the commotion around him.

For a moment, Arthur wished that when Merlin awoke, the two of them would fight, side-by-side, to freedom, but he knew this would never be a reality again. Now, as painful as it was, he felt as though they were on opposite sides.

There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of Merlin's steady breathing and Arthur's pounding heart, and then Taliesin yanked the hand he still held trapped in his own, pulling it downward and pressing it against Merlin's porcelain temple, so that Arthur's fingers were encircled with the soft, dark hair of his servant and he could feel the warm arch of Merlin's cheekbone against his palm.

In that second, Arthur understood everything.

**To be continued**

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(1) Nobody panic, please. I just made him pass out because, in the episode, the power of the cave made him look like he was about to faint from it. It's an AU, remember. He's fine. Moving on.

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_I know nobody likes cliffhangers. Sorry. (Not really.) *haha* Next chappie will be posted whenever I can find the time, promise! Love you all, but I love your reivews just as much! *hinthint*_


	3. Chapter 3

_Wow. That's all I can say. This is probably the hardest chapter I have ever written in my entire life. (At least, that I can think of at the moment.) Do you even realize how much research this required? (Okay, granted, the "research" consisted of watching a dozen Merlin episodes and searching "Arthur Merlin moments" on YouTube, but still.) I'm still not sure if it's perfect, but I guess that's for you to decide, seeing as I'm thinking that if I reread this chapter one more time my brain may explode and then people would be cleaning up daydreams about Merlin off my walls.  
Okay, that was a big graphic; my apologies.  
Anyway, I'm sorry about the enormous length, but this is important, dangit, and it takes lots of room to fit it all.  
Special thanks to __**Anya**__ for pointing out a missed scene for me to add. Your reminder made me remember another one I missed, too, so thanks again. And more thanks to __**Maciemouse**__, __**ReadingRaven019**__, and __**Sylvanara**__. The truth of the matter is that you all are helpers for this chapter, so thanks again! *hugs*  
And (last thing, promise) thank you all so very, very, very much for the reviews and favorites and story alerts. You have absolutely no idea how happy it makes me to click onto my story and see 24 reviews for two chapters. *diez*  
And now onto the drama..._

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**Chapter III**

Flashes. Colors. Faces. Voices.

It was as nothing Arthur had ever experienced. Somewhere in the back of his conscious mind, he could feel his knees still pressed against the cold stone ground of the Crystal Cave, and his body crouched over the still form of his manservant. The rest of his mind, however, was somewhere far away—delving into a deep and bright place filled with memories and ideas and emotions and a thousand other things which went unspoken.

He could see it all.

The first time they met, how he had been needlessly torturing some poor, weak-minded servant, and Merlin had had sympathy and defended the boy. Merlin never thought they would get along—he could feel the contempt through his servant's own memory, now joined to his. The contempt had faded, however, and now, instead of irritation and insolence toward Arthur, the memory brought with it a feeling of odd, fond affection to Merlin's mind.

Words echoed at that, spoken to a boy who had been Merlin's friend and known his deepest secret before Arthur had even known his name.

"_I hated him. I thought he was pompous and arrogant. But in time, I came to respect him for what he stands for, what he does."_

That boy—Will—had died in Arthur's place before Merlin's very eyes. Though this had saddened Merlin, he was truly glad it was not Arthur who had lain dead upon that old tabletop. Arthur could not help but wonder why this was so, when Will always had been so kind and accepting of Merlin (he somehow knew this, through Merlin's mind) and Arthur had been the opposite, and still was, most of the time.

Merlin's mind refrained from answering this question right away, and instead leapt on to another moment in the past.

Their second encounter—how he had tripped clumsily over objects and barely managed to defeat Merlin in combat. He always had thought it was strange, that he had been so inattentive and unaware of his surroundings that day. Now, he felt Merlin's amusement as he saw himself through the young sorcerer's eyes, falling over a rope stretched by magic across his path.

"_I could take you apart in one blow."_

"_I could take you apart in less than that."_

As the picture of Merlin's demolishing a vicious stone gargoyle into a thousand dark pieces struck his mind, Arthur no longer doubted that.

He heard Gaius' lecturing Merlin to remain obscure with his powers, and then heard the laughs and jeers as Merlin was pummeled with rotten vegetables in the stocks. Merlin didn't mind, not really. He found the plight as comical as they did. Each time he somehow ended up there, he always laughed at himself and his own absurdity—even when he did not deserve the punishment, as when Uther had placed him there for his "forgetting" to inform the king of Arthur's plans (as per the prince's request, he recalled with some slight guilt, even if he had been under a spell).

"_They were throwing potatoes at me! It's only supposed to be rotten fruit!"_

The words rang clear through their merged memories, and Arthur felt himself laugh aloud.

Mary Collins and her deadly song—Merlin became his manservant that day. That was the day it all had begun. His magic had released the rope that dropped the chandelier upon her. He was annoyed when his reward was to be Arthur's manservant, but he never truly regretted it—not even once.

Valiant's enchanted shield and venomous serpents. Merlin saved him again. Guinevere's being arrested after Merlin's magic saved her father. He hadn't been lying, after all, when he'd burst into the assembly chamber and confessed to being a sorcerer. He'd saved Arthur a third time that night, from the clay monster born of Nimueh's wicked magic. Sophia, trying to regain immortality by sacrificing him—again, Merlin was his savior. The sword, Excalibur, forged by magic of the great dragon, Kilgharrah _(The dragon had a name?)_. It had been meant for Arthur—"_Will you burnish it, to save Arthur?"—_but saved Uther instead.

"_You've shown an extraordinary loyalty."_

"_It is my job, sire."_

"_Beyond the realm of duty."_

"_Well, you could say there is a bond between us."_

How did he know that? How was Merlin so sure there was such a bond?

Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon, calling Merlin, having recognized the magic spirit of an exceptional warlock—the warlock of legend. _"That your and Arthur's path lies together is but the truth,"_ he'd said. _"A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole."_

Merlin had been overwhelmed then, with Arthur's harsh and thoughtless accusations ringing in his ears louder than the wise dragon's assurances.

"_I believed you; I trusted you, and you made me look a complete fool."_

"_I need a servant I can trust. Get out of my sight!"_

Nonetheless, Merlin had proven himself to Arthur, and subsequently, Arthur had brought him back, and proven to Merlin that the Great Dragon's predictions may be true after all. Arthur recalled that day in his own memories; even as he had sacked Merlin, he knew he would ultimately restore his position as manservant to the prince. He had needed him even then, though he had not known at the time why he was attached to the clumsy servant so quickly, even if Merlin _was_ the kindest soul he'd ever encountered. Now, he understood; it was because Merlin's kind soul was joined with his own, by some unexplainable power.

Next, he felt Merlin's trepidation as he'd released the Great Dragon—he'd promised to do so in exchange for the dragon's secret spell to save Camelot (_to save Arthur_, Merlin's mind whispered)—and subsequent betrayal as the dragon destroyed what he'd helped Merlin protect for so long. Merlin had shown mercy upon Kilgharrah, had let the dragon live, after he'd overpowered him with his magic that night in the field outside of Camelot.

Merlin had lied to him, he realized. Arthur hadn't wounded the dragon at all. That was certainly disappointing.

They still met from time to time, Merlin and Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah, for all his might and glory, was forced to bow before Merlin, so small and yet so dominant. Merlin never abused that power, choosing instead to respect his _"brother of the Old Religion."_

More revelations. Balinor, the last Dragonlord. He was Merlin's father. Arthur felt Merlin's pure, unadulterated joy as he bade his father good-night for the first time in his life, and the admiration as he gazed upon the crafted wooden dragon the morning thereafter…then his heart-wrenching sorrow as he held Balinor in his arms, watching him die so soon after finding him. Arthur hadn't understood then, thinking it was merely Merlin's tender heart which made him grieve so—he understood now, and could feel Merlin's loss so deeply that he wanted, briefly, only to comfort his weeping servant.

At that, he saw himself, as they stood by the door of his chambers, both with swords in hand.

"_Are you really going to face this dragon with me?"_

"_I know it's hard for you to understand how I feel, but I care a hell of a lot about that armor; I'm not going to let you mess it up."_

Arthur had laughed then, and this small reminder of their fated companionship had pulled Merlin from his lonely sorrow. He had been grateful to Arthur for cheering him, and Arthur had never even known he had.

Merlin's mother, Hunith, watching them together as they taught the farmers of Ealdor to fight—Arthur had taught the men how, and Merlin had taught Arthur why.

"_You've just got to believe in them, because if you don't, they'll sense it, and the war will be lost before it's even begun."_

Arthur could see in Hunith's eyes that she saw something special between them as she comforted Merlin before they left for their return journey to Camelot.

"_You belong at Arthur's side. I've seen how much he needs you, how much you need him. You're like two sides of the same coin."_

Merlin believed her. He'd always believed that—with every fibre of his being and every breath he breathed, he believed that Arthur was always to be his other half, in a way that no one would ever comprehend. Arthur could feel how strongly he believed it, and Merlin's unwavering faith stunned him to amazement.

Gaius, and each time the wise man had shown his love for Merlin, every time he had expressed his pride and joy for him. The letter, simple and apt, the words ringing horrifyingly inside Merlin's head as Gaius made his way to Nimueh to willingly die in Merlin's stead.

Back a mere few hours prior, to when Merlin had entered Arthur's chambers for the first time since his return from Nimueh. Arthur had been slightly hurt that his servant had not called upon him, had sat with him only once while he had lain, seemingly dying from the Questing Beast's venom. He had been somewhat brusque and unforthcoming with the servant as he entered the room for his trivial spite.

"_You still haven't got it yet, have you? _I_ decide when we need to talk."_

Now, he realized the truth—that Merlin had not been uncaring, but had been doing more than anyone else was prepared to do to save his prince's life; he was sacrificing himself to the Old Religion, traveling all the journey to Nimueh's unholy land to surrender his soul to her and balance the realm of the dead.

"_You're a great warrior. One day, you'll be a great king."_

It was Merlin's good-bye, and he had never even known it.

"_That's very kind of you,"_ had been his response, unaware as he was that he was never to see his valued servant again. Had he only known what Merlin's plan had been, he would have said—or at least tried to say, as it was an unhidden secret that he was as cursed with joining words as his father—so much more; he would have tried to stop him, he knew—forcibly if necessary, injured arm or no.

"_But you must learn to listen as well as you fight."_

He'd scoffed.

"_Any other pointers?"_

A look on Merlin's gentle features, as though wishing to say more but refraining.

"_No. That's it….Just…don't be a prat."_

And then he had gone to his chosen death, leaving Arthur behind, the prince wondering what the twisted knot of worry in his stomach might mean.

More sorrow. Freya. The winged cat. Arthur had tried to kill her, never knowing that she was Merlin's first love. He'd never told him, even when he suffered so very much at her loss. Arthur felt Merlin's heart breaking inside of him as if it was his own heart breaking, as the image of her dying in his arms overwhelmed both their minds. How he wished he'd known then! Perhaps he could have done something—anything—to prevent this pain Merlin endured.

His voice again, after it was all over, and he felt Merlin's fondness for him arise again with some memory.

"_Something's been upsetting you, hasn't it?"_

Then Merlin's own flabbergasted laughter as Arthur cheered his spirits again in his own roundabout way. Merlin had vowed in his mind that he would not consider leaving again; he had realized that day that he probably never could.

Alice, Gaius' old love, with her mind enslaved by a creature of magic. It was the first time Gaius and Merlin had ever truly fought, and had left the boy more upset than he had been after any one of those trifling arguments with Arthur. He had been driven down further by Arthur's insistence to practice his aim that day, using his manservant as a target. Then,

"_Oh, cheer up, will you?"_

and Merlin briefly forgot his worries when his friend had put forth a effort—albeit a poor, more knight-suited one—to cheer him in the form of two not-so-gentle blows to the arm.

Arthur found himself to be glad that Merlin understood. The punches were worth more than words in Arthur's case; it was his way to comfort or thank Merlin, without the messy, confusing hindrance of words getting in his way. Merlin liked it when Arthur punched his arm, even if it did leave a slight bruise every now and then. Merlin knew Arthur never meant to hurt him.

The Crystal of Neatid's being stolen. Arthur had blamed Merlin, even when they both knew it was not his fault. Merlin had been nervous, fully expecting Uther to put him in shackles when Arthur's frustration would make him place the responsibility upon his servant.

Arthur had lied for him, to save him from the king's wrath, and Merlin never forgot it.

"_Merlin, are you all right?"_

Arthur's voice, muffled and barely audible through a thick stone wall. It had fallen so suddenly, barely giving Merlin time to move from its way before it crushed him. The fear in his prince's voice, and the subsequent relief which briefly flooded his handsome features when he found Merlin to be unharmed, had warmed the servant and broken down more of his doubts about Arthur's feelings for him.

Merlin frequently wondered if Arthur cared for him even a fraction as much as he cared for Arthur; the vast amount of times the question had passed across the younger man's mind over the years made Arthur frown disapprovingly.

His own hard voice, low with a controlled fury and heavy with promise,

"_It is once again clear to me that those who practice magic are evil and dangerous, and that is thanks to you."_

And Merlin, heart sinking and eyes shining with despair,

"_Glad I could help."_

He had cried that night, in the solitude of his own room, with the moon's milky glow pouring through his window. How hard it had been, to make the choice between protecting Arthur with a lie and destroying him with the truth. To lie was to damn himself, for he knew that by accusing Morgause of wicked enchantments of that degree was to change Arthur's heart back to its hardened state against all magic. To allow his prince to believe the truth was to remove the greatest threat, Uther, from their lives—it was merely the king's reaping what he had been sowing for twenty years. But Merlin had chosen to lie to save Arthur from the grief and guilt he would have carried with him for the rest of his life—and to save him from losing the respect and love of his future subjects.

It had broken Merlin further, but he would never have done differently when it concerned Arthur's well-being.

The poisoned chalice—poisoned by Nimueh. Merlin had drunk it willingly, even knowing that he would die. He had no compunction for dying in Arthur's stead. Not once had he ever hesitated to do so.

Merlin's horror as Arthur repaid him for his noble deed by drinking from the cup in the Labyrinth of Gedref. This was followed by the boy's limp relief as the keeper assured him Arthur was not to die, but merely slept. Merlin's pride for Arthur's proving himself was stronger than his own had been, Arthur realized. It seemed that every time, in every memory, no matter how minor the cause, when Arthur showed himself to be the good, noble-hearted ruler he was, Merlin's pride rose up and overtook all other feelings.

Merlin was proud of him. This made him ridiculously happier than it should have.

As though his happiness spread into Merlin's mind, the images changed to glad ones. Flashes of every time and place he had made Arthur smile, amounting to dozens of fleeting pictures, some of which Arthur didn't even recall. Merlin liked to see Arthur smile, his memories whispered to the prince; it told him he was doing his job correctly. Then, all the times Arthur had pleased him, complimented him, or praised him—whether outright or indirectly. There were even more of those than Arthur thought there would be.

"_There's something about you, Merlin."_

"_You're braver than you look."_

"_If I wasn't a prince, I think we'd probably get on."_

"_I've grown to quite like you."_

"_There are times, Merlin, when you display a sort of…I don't want to say… It's not wisdom. But yes, that's what it is."_

"_It pains me to admit it, but I do enjoy your surly retorts."_

"_He may be an idiot, but he's a brave one."_

"_It's been an honor."_

"_How come you're so knowledgeable?"_

"_You've shown some real initiative."_

"_Merlin is my servant. He has my complete trust."_

On and on it went, until Arthur's mind was filled with Merlin's delight and satisfaction for his master's praise. Just as he liked for Merlin to be proud of him, it worked the other way as well. Merlin liked to think that Arthur took pride in him equally as much. He wondered if Merlin knew just how much pride he took in calling him his servant.

All the times Arthur had said or implied, _"Shut up, Merlin."_ There were more of those than anything else, to their shared amusement.

The day Arthur had come to Merlin, sat and watched him sharpen his sword with his head resting on his folded arms, and humbly asked for his advice concerning his father. Merlin regarded that day as one of his best victories in their relationship.

Those many instances when Uther had looked discouragingly at them—during banquets, when he caught Arthur carrying on an inconspicuous conversation with Merlin instead of with the visiting nobility at the table, during the days when he saw Merlin shoving Arthur playfully in return and pointedly disapproving of his "loose" behavior around his crowned son, and each and every occasion when he had entered Arthur's chambers without knocking and was nearly struck with a flying pillow or other object which had been aimed for a jeering Merlin's head.

There were many of those.

Merlin did not hate Uther, Arthur recognized when the question arose in his own thoughts, despite knowing the cold-hearted king would have no compunction about slaughtering him as he had so many others. Each of those times when the boy had saved his king's life was incorporated into Arthur's mind, and Arthur realized that he owed Merlin even more than simply his own life. He found himself wondering if he could have shown the same forgiveness and nobleness as his gentle servant had toward his father, after all the death and suffering he had brought upon his brother- and sister-practitioners of the Old Religion.

Morgana's life, too, continued now because of Merlin; Edwin's twisted and scarred face appeared in his mind's eye. And Guinevere's life, as well; he could not stop his startled hilarity when he realized the "old man" who admitted to being a sorcerer, thereby saving the innocent girl from a torturous, public death, was Merlin in a difficult disguise. (He _knew_ he had recognized those deep eyes!) It seemed, as figures and spells and relieved gladness filed itself into his brain, that Merlin had acted as protector for nearly everyone Arthur knew and cared for—even Camelot as a whole.

Lancelot, and the terrible griffon. He never took his reward for his heroic deed; Arthur had always wondered why that was. After all the man's efforts to gain knighthood, it seemed so very unlikely that he would turn it away when it was offered to him. Now, as he saw Lancelot's horse through Merlin's eyes, rushing forward fearlessly to meet the beast, he heard Merlin's voice over the sound of the hoofs against ground, the magic echoing like a soft whisper in his ears,

"_Bregdan anweald gafeluec!"_

Lancelot had known the truth the moment the unearthly, blue energy had seeped into his hand through his once-ordinary spear. Not only did he have Guinevere's affections before the Arthur, but now Merlin's complete trust as well—for that, the prince puerilely found himself disliking him more than he had.

Then, after the images of all those Merlin had saved, more feelings, as strong as any he'd felt. They were for him, he realized, and he felt Merlin's heartache as he himself lay dying, victim of a Questing Beast's fatal bite.

"_I'm sorry, Gaius. Whatever the price, I will pay it gladly."_

He felt his own heart stop in his chest at hearing the words from Merlin's own lips, from so long ago and yet still so true, and feeling through their connection how strongly he believed in them.

Merlin had offered himself up in Arthur's place to Nimueh. Arthur had never known it, but Merlin had sat in his and Gaius' home in the workers' quarters of the castle, waiting to die and comforting himself in the knowledge that Arthur would live through his death.

"_I willingly give my life for Arthur's."_

"_Whatever I have to do, I will do. His life is worth a hundred of mine."_

If only Merlin knew how untrue that was.

Over and over again, image after image after image of Merlin's saving him. A branch falling, knocking unconscious a sword-wielding foe. A guard's pants dropping to his ankles, distracting him just before he was to slay Arthur. A hundred more times and places, flashing before his mind's eye, fast as lightning and twice as powerful. Merlin had saved his life, more times than he cared to count, never asking for anything in return, never demanding any reward.

He felt Merlin's feelings with every vision—the power, the determination, the quickness of his thinking. Each circumstance had its own collection of emotions—some frightened, some angry, some pleased, some sad. Never, in any of what he saw and felt in Merlin's mind, was there anything even akin to wickedness in his thinking. No selfishness, no cowardice, no animosity. There was only loyalty and nobility and _love_—love for his master and future king. It was a unique love, pure as the crystals surrounding them both and more potent with every passing moment. It was without condition or justification, even though he was afraid that Arthur did not return any of his feelings.

The racing pictures and voices halted, and only one remained. Merlin, standing before a small, stone-faced farmer's son—the boy who Camelot had watched slay a man twice his own weight and who nearly did the same to the king. He was a sorcerer, Merlin's psyche breathed, the ancient ring passing quickly over their minds' eye; that had been the secret he would not dare tell the curious men who asked.

And Merlin, whispering into his work-worn yet elegant hand,

"_Fornparon."_ (1)

A flame, so like himself in its being so minute and yet so effectual, telling a story of a thousand words in its flickering dance.

"_It's lonely,"_ Merlin's voice, quivering ever so slightly and thick with feeling, into the stunned stillness of that shoddy inn room, _"to be more powerful than any man you know and have to live like a shadow, to be special and have to pretend you're a fool. I know how it feels; I understand."_

Arthur had barely the chance to comprehend the words, to grasp their full meaning. Merlin, who was so enriched with power beyond anyone's control and so clever and knowledgeable beyond his years, was forced to lead a meager and unappreciated life to protect himself—and Gaius—from the most primitive of deaths. It was unjust, and undeserved, an existence like that, where he was called an idiot and a coward when all along, he held more worth than even the most honored knights of the land.

He had only time to realize this, when the image changed again.

Merlin, seated upon his bed, with Gaius standing over him, tilting his head and washing horse muck from his pale face.

"_I just want Arthur to trust me,"_ he said, tiredly, dismally; Arthur could feel the hurt and despair with every word, _"and to see me for who I really am."_

"_One day, he will."_

"_When?" _Desperation now, impatience, hopelessness. _"Everything I do is for him, and he just thinks I'm an idiot."_

Arthur's breath caught at that, those words echoing endlessly in his head. _Everything he did…._ He could feel it, deep within Merlin's soul; he could feel that this was true. Not a day had gone by since their meeting that Merlin had not thought of him, considered his feelings, taken better care of him than anyone else ever had—including his own father.

How could he have been so very blind, when Merlin pondered his every move for Arthur's sake? How could he not have seen the truth—all of it? He had even told his father, that night after his miraculous recovery from the bite of the Questing Beast, that he felt there was someone watching over him—a guardian angel. Here, he had been walking beside him all this time, and he'd never even guessed it.

"_Now is not the time to be questioning these things, Merlin."_ Gaius' wise eyes boring into Merlin's—and into Arthur's through Merlin's memory. _"I believe that you and Arthur are destined for greatness, and your calling is to serve and protect him."_

Merlin nodding, knowing surely that Gaius was right, but still pained by it all.

"_It's hard."_

Arthur felt the walls he had built against his emotions crumbling at Merlin's soft and sad admittance.

The image before him changed again, and more voices and sounds and colors and pictures began flying across his mind's eye like a strange dream, faster than a rushing river.

Then it stopped. Cedric, the man who had pretended to serve him in Merlin's stead only to reach the crystal he thought would make him a rich man, and ended in his being possessed by the wicked Cornelius Sigan.

He saw himself, lying unconscious and helpless upon the ground, and Merlin standing obstinately between him and the wicked sorcerer.

"_I won't let you hurt him!"_

Sigan had laughed at his devotion.

"_He does not deserve your loyalty. He treats you like a slave."_

"_That's not true."_

Pangs of truth, shooting into Merlin's heart even as he had denied it. Arthur felt his eyes squint together as he, too, wished he could say it was an absolute lie.

"_He casts you aside without a moment's thought."_

"_That doesn't matter."_

"_But it must hurt, so much, to be so put upon, so overlooked, when all the while you have such power."_

It did hurt him. More than he would ever tell Arthur. He did not need to tell him now. Arthur could feel it, how much it pained him to pretend to be so inferior, to never get any of the recognition he deserved—but he did not want it from anyone else but Arthur. He wanted only for Arthur to know and appreciate him for who he truly was, as his mother did, as Gaius did. These were the only approvals that mattered in his mind.

He could feel Merlin's weakness, the fragility which lasted only for a moment, but still enough to make him doubt the rewards of his devotion.

"_Arthur will tremble at your voice. He will kneel at your feet."_

"_I don't want that."_

Sureness in the words, the misgivings vanished.

"_You'd rather be a servant?"_

"_Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one."_

Arthur wondered how Merlin could deny such a chance. After all Arthur had put him through, all he had suffered for the sake of the man who treated him so thoughtlessly, how could Merlin look Sigan in the eye and say that he did not want to be free of it all?

As if in answer, Merlin's emotions from that night rose to his conscious mind, seeming to shove Arthur forward again, reminding him of the truth. Merlin loved him—he loved Arthur more than he loved himself, and had proven that so many times over. It was not just that, however. Merlin could see past what all others saw. He could see the kind and fair Arthur, the one who would die to rescue a servant or go alone to wage war on a legion of bandits. He could even see the fragile man far behind the invincible façade—the Arthur who winced inwardly when he was injured in tournament practice, and who wished every night that his aspirations would come within his reach. Merlin could envision with clarity what would become of him once he was strong enough to become king. He had faith in Arthur, and it was a fervent and unshakeable faith.

More tears, as sincere in their sorrow as when his father died, and when his first love died. It was…odd, though. Arthur did not recognize the setting straightaway, as he had all the others.

Then he realized. This memory was fresh, only hours old. It was when he had lain, dying.

Merlin's tears were for him…and while he had cried, Arthur had been cursing him, again not understanding.

"_I'm happy to be your servant, until the day I die."_

Arthur knew now, beyond any shadow of doubt, what that meant. It was not simply the inconsequential ramblings of a foolish servant boy; it was the sincere vow of a wise sorcerer.

And to a man who did not deserve it.

Arthur felt burning behind his eyes, as he had not felt in years. Who was he, that someone so unflawed and full of wonder could want so very much to be called his friend? The people of Camelot called it a miracle that their prince had endured so much and lived to tell of it. Merlin was his miracle; Merlin was the one thing that kept him alive—in more than just a physical sense.

He had viewed magic as an evil for so long. This was because every act of sorcery he had seen with his eyes had been selfish and cruel—little had he known that while he was looking forward at the depraved and wicked magic and all its devastation, there had been good magic all around him, protecting him from all that would harm him. And the source of it stood in the background, unacknowledged but never weakening or forsaking him, no matter how tiresome it became.

He could feel at last that Merlin's mind and spirit were merged completely with his own. Every dark, turbulent, lonely corner was lit and clear with a weird, radiant purple that could only be Merlin. Moving pictures continued to flow through their joined thoughts, all integrating themselves in Arthur's head for him to absorb and comprehend, so that he could see it through Merlin's perspective and his own all at once. It was the most extraordinary thing he had ever experienced, seeing such phenomenal revelations in another's perception—more literally than he ever thought possible. He felt everything Merlin felt, saw everything Merlin saw, so clearly that he wondered how he had failed to grasp it as it had all happened. It seemed that all of the sounds and images and feelings, as fantastic and passionate as anything he had felt in his life, should overwhelm him with their power, but he only seemed to become stronger and clearer as Merlin's strength and insight melded with his own.

It felt as though the whole universe had opened to reveal beauty and mystery and magic far beyond ordinary mortals' awareness. Questions were answered, and more were asked—questions of how a boy strong enough to kill a witch and dismantle a dragon could be meek enough to scrub a castle floor, of how a voice with the might to overthrow a kingdom could hearten and counsel the selfish prince instead, of how magic potent and structured to be the magic of legend for eons past and to come could faithfully follow and serve him with no regret.

He did not understand everything; he supposed he never would. Merlin was a riddle, right before his eyes but unanswerable all the same.

It did not matter, why or how, he decided, echoing Merlin's outlook in his mind. All that mattered what that he could finally _see_ the miraculous evidence of it all.

He saw everything now, through golden eyes.

**To be continued**

* * *

_(1) Okay, if this is wrong, my apologies. The page of Merlin's spells did not include this one, and so I had to listen and try to write the word down by ear. If you know what the actual spelling is, please let me know._

* * *

_Okay, so before anything else, let me just say that if any of you can think of a moment from the series you think I missed, or an episode you think deserves a spotlight, feel free to let me know and I'll see what I can do. Like I said, I've been in Germany for two weeks so I don't know if I remembered every moment I had in mind (I think I did, but this is what I get for not writing things down).  
And even if you can't think of one, please still write me a review! I'm dying to know what you all think and will not relax until I get opinions!_


	4. Chapter 4

_*iz thunderstruck*  
Forty reviews. Excuse me for a minute while I go scream.  
Okay, I'm back, and I cannot thank you all enough for your amazing, wonderful, fantastic reviews. I'm so thrilled that you all liked the last chapter so much and that so many of you took the time to point out things you enjoyed about it-that really lets me know that you paid attention, and I love you for it!  
Remember that, if you're just now reading all chapters, I'm still open for suggestions for Chapter III; so if there's a part you wish I'd added, you can still let me know. *wink*__  
Now, without further delay, wakie-wakie, Merlin..._

* * *

**Chapter IV**

Merlin was exhausted.

He had awoken from unconsciousness after fainting upon a cold rock floor, shivering from the chill of the late night hour and wincing from a bruise hidden in his dark hair from his striking the hard ground. After finding himself all alone in the darkened Crystal Cave, his first thought had been—as it always was—for Arthur, and he had stumbled blindly through the bitter forest back to where he had left his master.

The prince was still lost in a healing sleep, it seemed, lying in the same position in which he had been when Merlin had followed Taliesin into the Crystal Cave hours previous.

Merlin watched him sleep now, smirking in irony at his master's peaceful slumber while nightmarish images of mounting hatred and deceitful betrayal and cold-blooded murder replayed themselves over and over again in his own fraught mind.

He looked down at his hands; they were still trembling, even after two hours of his being outside the crystals' realm. He laced his fingers together and tried to still them, feeling his whole form ache with fatigue—though why he was so tired, he could not understand. Every limb throbbed as though he had been running for days, though he knew he had actually been lying, motionless, on a cave floor for the past several hours.

There was something else, however—something tugging obstinately at his memory. It was something crucial…something to do with Arthur, and magic, and the crystals, and the old sorcerer, who had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Merlin tried to concentrate on this powerful thing, tried to remember what it was that was demanding his attention somewhere in the back of his mind, but it remained at the edge of his awareness, just out of his reach.

His eyes darted to Arthur, who looked more like a breathing lump in the blackness of the night. _Arthur_, his mind kept whispering to him. Whatever it was, Arthur was the center. Not that this surprised him; it seemed that Arthur was the center of nearly everything he did. But if only he could _remember_ this one thing; it felt so very important….

He closed his eyes, briefly wishing it would all simply disappear, if only for a little while—just long enough for him to rest properly. All these things pulling him violently in every direction sometimes felt so overwhelming he feared it would make him insane before it was all done.

A sudden, icy breeze gusted by him, suffusing his exposed face in the biting cold.

He shuddered, teeth chattering a bit, and leaned toward the pile of charred wood which he had used earlier to build a small fire. Hardly able to see in the dark, he grappled until his fingers found the half-burnt branches; he certainly could not start a fire using only these.

"Arthur, you're not awake, are you?" he called softly, merely as a precaution.

There was no response.

He returned his attention to the cool limbs at his feet, summoned his strength, and whispered into the night,

"_Bryne."_

Almost instantly, a flame crackled and spread into a warm, softly roaring blaze. As the fire danced in his eyes, he slid closer and warmed his numbing fingers.

Several minutes passed, and then a faint noise from his left reached his ears.

"Merlin, is that you?"

Arthur's voice, but it did not sound as though he had just awoken; Merlin had heard his master's voice in the early morning well enough to know his tone when he first rose.

"Yeah," he answered, truly much too distracted in his own mind to pay close attention as Arthur moved again.

The prince stood and shuffled through the dead leaves, settling beside Merlin on the old log. He said nothing more for a long moment, but the servant could feel his master watching him discreetly from the corner of his eye.

He ignored him, too weary and troubled to care overly much what Arthur's problem was this time.

"Merlin,"—Arthur's voice was strangely quiet, and held a gentle undertone Merlin did not recognize—"can I ask you something?"

"Sure," he responded, halfheartedly.

"Do you remember that day, when you fainted mucking out my horses and I sent you home?"

Merlin fought to keep the lingering irritation of that incident from his expression, but his mouth twitched slightly at one corner despite his efforts.

"Yes."

More silence, but not final, as though Arthur was arranging his thoughts.

"I didn't send you home because you let the horses loose," he said at last.

"I know," was Merlin's slightly cross answer. "You sent me home because you preferred Cedric over me…and I called you a clotpole. But you were being one."

"Yes, thank you; you didn't have to point it out," countered Arthur evenly. "You're wrong, though. It wasn't because I preferred him—although he did have a better conduct"—Merlin snorted—"and it wasn't because you called me a clotpole, either."

"Really." Merlin attempted to show as little interest as possible.

"I sent you home because Cedric kept saying that you were tired," Arthur answered, his normally cocky tone even softer than before, almost timid with reluctance but strong in its honesty. "I was afraid he was right, and you fainted because you weren't well and you were being worked too hard."

As quickly as that, all thoughts of Morgana's dreadful treachery and his own trying weariness fled, and he glanced at his master, curious indeed at this admittance which was so very rare for him.

Arthur's sapphire eyes met his own, only bare inches away, steady in their sincere gaze as if they were attempting to say what his words could not.

"I was worried for you," he finished simply, puzzling Merlin further.

The servant regarded him for a long minute, thinking back to that time when he had been so irritated with Arthur's idiocy concerning the lying Cedric. Had the prince's snapping orders really been out of concern for him?

"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked inquisitively.

Arthur broke his gaze at that, looking down into the flickering fire reflectively.

"I just thought you should know," he said eventually, "that it wasn't because I was mad at you. That's hardly ever the reason I act the way I do, in fact."

"I know," replied Merlin, feeling a good deal more light-hearted. "It's just because you're a clotpole. I understand."

Arthur rolled his eyes, snickering liberally.

The next few minutes were passed in companionable silence, but Merlin could still feel Arthur's gaze upon him. When he peered over to catch the other young man's expression, he realized he had never seen Arthur look at him that way before. It was almost as if Arthur was trying to grasp something by staring at Merlin's face—as though he was attempting to decipher some complex puzzle, or unite truths for a grand end. Merlin didn't understand it, why Arthur's way of looking at him changed so suddenly to something he could almost convince himself resembled wonderment; he allowed himself to imagine that perhaps this would be Arthur's way of regarding him always, should he ever discover and accept Merlin's magic and learn of his deeds with it.

Finally, Arthur broke the silence again.

"I'm not like my father, you know."

Merlin tilted his head toward his friend to acknowledge he was listening.

"The king," Arthur continued, "he's wrong about a great many things. He always has been, and I've always known he was."

"I know," was Merlin's only comment.

"The most significant thing, though, that he's wrong about," Arthur went on, slowly, as if choosing his words carefully, "in my opinion, is this whole uproar about sorcery."

Merlin tried to hide his sudden thrill at this unexpected turn.

"Really?" he hazarded, hardly daring to believe his ears.

Arthur nodded, still gazing into the roaring flames.

"I was never certain that he was," he said. "After all, the only sorcerers and creatures of magic I've ever encountered have mostly tried to kill me at some time or another."

Merlin couldn't deny that; Arthur did have quite a bad streak of luck with magical beings.

"What made you change your mind?" he questioned when Arthur did not go on.

Arthur looked up then, his eyes locking once again on Merlin's, burning with an intensity Merlin had never seen before.

"You," was his vague and quiet answer.

"What?" Merlin laughed, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine at that. "Me? What did I do?"

Arthur chuckled, and though Merlin thought this should probably frighten him, he was actually relieved to see the old, somewhat ill-mannered Arthur had returned in his tone and expression.

"I think my father has been wrong, all these years," he said instead of answering, and then added, "I think _I've_ been wrong, about a good lot of things."

He looked to Merlin's face again.

"There is such a thing as good magic," he declared, as if it was the one thing of which he was sure in all the world. "I can see that now."

"H-how?" Merlin asked, willing his voice not to shake. He wasn't afraid—not yet, but he was certainly nervous; what was Arthur talking about? What had he meant? He couldn't know, couldn't _possibly_ know his secret. How could he?

"Taliesin," he said. "The old sorcerer in the Crystal Cave. I know you met him, too."

"Ah…yeah," Merlin replied awkwardly, and he supposed he should feel relieved that it was the older sorcerer's magic which had altered Arthur's perception and not his own, but he knew that was not the end of it—somehow, he _knew_ there was a greater end to all this…"while you were sleeping. What did he tell you?"

"He saved my life, first of all," Arthur stated somewhat ambiguously. "And I know you know about that, too."

"I had to let him do it," Merlin defended himself hastily, for he knew the penalty of conspiring with a sorcerer. "You were dying! I had no choice."

"I know," Arthur told him, severely for his interruption. "I could hear you, Merlin; I was awake for the entire time."

Merlin felt the blood drain from his face. _The entire time…_Could Arthur really mean what he thought? He recalled the spells—not one, but _two_—which he had recited before Taliesin appeared and healed Arthur. He couldn't have heard him; Arthur couldn't know the truth….If he did, it could mean the end of him, and Gaius, and his destiny—and consequence of that would be the destruction of Arthur's life, and then Camelot itself….He _couldn't know_….

"You…what?" was all he could manage.

Arthur's face was as impassive as stone as he turned to look at his servant. Merlin had become so capable of reading him, after all the time they spent together, but now it was impossible for him to guess his master's thoughts from his manner. It was eerily like looking at the King Uther.

Merlin felt his palms become clammy, heart beating faster with his nerves.

This was it, he knew. He could feel it. This was the moment of truth—the point of no return. This is what he had been awaiting for years.

He was frightened.

"I heard you, Merlin," Arthur was saying, voice still soft, but Merlin hardly noticed. "I know the truth. I see you for who you are now."

Merlin's heart skipped a beat.

"You're a sorcerer."

"What?" he laughed, too loudly, his first instinct having long-since become to deny it, as he hoped it did not sound as forced to Arthur's ears as it did to his own. "Arthur, I think you hit your head harder when you fell than we both thought. I'm not a sorcerer. Taliesin is the one who healed you; you're just confused."

"I know that Taliesin healed me, Merlin," Arthur said with that familiar tolerance that always told the servant he was an idiot. "He told me that. But it wasn't_ just_ that."

His voice was low, enigmatic.

"What happened, Arthur?" Merlin asked, barely more than a whisper, as he willed his breathing to calm—it was making his voice breathless.

There was a quiet for a long moment—a heavy, fearful quiet. Arthur barely moved, other than to push a burning branch in the fire, generating fleeting sparks. Merlin was like a statue, wide eyes gazing unblinkingly at the prince, full of fear and uncertainty and the slightest trace of hope.

"I was going to leave you here." Arthur's voice was as dark and weighty as the silence. "I told him to tell you never to come back, because I would have you executed if you did. I despised you for your lies, for deceiving me all this time about everything, for being something I couldn't keep or protect without fearing what could be within you."

Merlin held his breath and watched as his very existence was held in his master's hands; his life was based solely now upon Arthur's verdict. He prayed in an endless mantra that his prince would consider the truth, would see Merlin for who he was, beyond a servant and beyond a wizard, but as both made into one exceptional being.

This was nothing in the least like Merlin expected it would be. Enraged threats and bellowed commands and perhaps a bit of swearing, somewhere light and spacious, like one of the fields outside of Camelot, or even a small cavern somewhere in a faraway kingdom, just after some grand battle in which they opposed a wicked army, where Merlin was forced to reveal his magic in order to save Arthur from a mortal blow, when they were both grown men and the bond between them was stronger, during Arthur's reign of Camelot. This was the scenario the young wizard had always envisioned when he pondered Arthur's discovering his secret, but this…this quiet, roundabout conversation before a muted fire in the dead of night, it was nothing as what Merlin would have imagined in a thousand years.

"I was going to leave"—Arthur's tone had changed now into something Merlin could not identify; his eyes had softened, his expression yet unreadable—"because I didn't understand how a decent and trustworthy _idiot_ like yourself could be such a crafty liar. You had taken so much time and exertion to prove yourself to me, make me trust you and _like_ you, and then I was forced to look over all of it again and wonder if there was some grand scheme against me, if you were just another evil out to destroy me."

Merlin could not bear any more of this; to deny his being a sorcerer now would be in vain, for it was more than clear that Arthur knew. Still, he thought of laughing again, of calling Arthur mad and of attempting to divert him from this line of thought. But no—he was tired of the lies, of the mistrusts, of the secrets; he had to show him the truth now, had to make Arthur see the reality of it all while he had this one chance.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself for whatever tempest was to come.

"I tried to tell you," he began, voice desperate and pleading, as he turned in his seat agitatedly to face the emotionless prince. "I tried, countless times, to tell you, Arthur; you have to believe me. I _wanted_ to tell you everything, to show you what I am and why—I wanted to tell you more than anything; I came so close so many times. But I was terrified that you wouldn't understand—that you'd be afraid of me because of what I can do. I didn't want that, not ever."

He was aware that he was rambling, but all the calm and rational wording he had recited over and over in his mind for so many years had been chased away by the desperation and fear from this unexpected event, leaving nothing but pleas and hopes in his throat. He only prayed his words would not make things only worse for him.

"Then what did you want, Merlin?" Arthur's tone remained unruffled, even with Merlin's outright admittance hanging in the air.

Merlin did not have to consider his answer.

"For you to trust me," he pronounced, keeping his tone clear and forceful, never pulling his eyes from Arthur's, despite the shaking of his hands and the dread in his heart. "That's all. I know that I've lied to you, and I am sorry that I couldn't tell you the truth about who I really am. But you have to _think_, Arthur—I've never lied to you about anything else. Never. You know I haven't; I've never given you any reason to doubt me."

A beat between them.

"Please, Arthur,"—Merlin's voice was as sharp and intense as his bright eyes—"I've never asked anything from you, but I am asking you now only for one thing: to believe what I tell you."

Neither noticed when Merlin gripped Arthur's wrist in his agitation, twisting his fingers in the young man's sleeve. Neither broke the gaze.

"I would never hurt you," he vowed, barely above a whisper, each word like a promise in itself. "Not for anything. I believe, with everything I am, that my magic was given to me for a reason."

"And what's that?" Arthur's voice was equally as soft, eyes just as intense.

"You," he told him, readily. "To protect you. I _want_ to protect you, Arthur, and I have, so many times that I've lost count. That day I told you, coming back from your quest, that I would do anything for you"—he paused, until he was sure Arthur recalled it—"I would; that wasn't a lie either. And I would not demand a price. My magic—it's a part of me; it's who I am, and I could not change that; I don't want to change it, despite the penalty for it. All I'm asking is for you to look beyond all you're afraid of, and remember that you _know_ me; I am your servant, and I've never pretended to be anything else."

"How can I believe what you're saying, Merlin?" Arthur questioned, but the servant's heart leapt, for his master's tone was not angered or mocking, but sincere, as though surrendering to the heartfelt appeals, or perhaps testing him.

"Because you are my friend, my master, and my king," he murmured, the fire flickering in his blue eyes and making the passion in them twice as prominent, "and I would kill for you in a heartbeat, and die for you in even less—sorcerer or not, doesn't matter; that's not something that would change."

He loosened his grip on Arthur's wrist, and then pulled his hand away altogether.

"You are my purpose, sire; I have used everything I have to protect and serve you, and I won't apologize, and I won't regret it…even if you decide to kill me for it," he finished, straightening again, his gaze ever steady.

The young sorcerer breathed deeply, preparing himself for the worst, should it come. He had said all he could think to say—it was not much, but it was the utter culmination of all his innermost sentiments; if his words were not enough, then his destiny was meant to end here. All he could do now was acquire a silent acceptance for whatever Arthur's choice would be.

Little could he know, Arthur had already made his decision the moment he had looked into Merlin's eyes and confirmed all he had felt in his soul.

**To be continued**


	5. Chapter 5

_I know I'm almost a day overdue. I'm really sorry about that, but just as I was about two minutes away from posting earlier, Reality hit me in the head like a two-ton cage of lemurs...really loud and obnoxious lemurs.  
Okay, so when I wanted to write a Merlin reveal fic, I couldn't decide which of two ideas I liked better. The first, and initial winner, was the whole Arthur-gets-in-his-head strategy; the second was my plan for them to get in a quiet place and have Merlin tell Seasons 1-3 to Arthur in first-person story form. *applause at my intelligent-sounding description (not!)* Because I am too stubborn for my own good, I couldn't let the second plot go, so…well, you can guess the rest.  
Oh, and I probably should have mentioned this in Chapter III (hehe), but a couple of you sharp reviewers have picked up on the fact that there are some episodes mentioned in the past two chapters that take place after The Crystal Cave. This is because in the beginning, I focused closely on the timeline, but then I eventually gave up because there's such good stuff in the last few S3 episodes, so let's just apply our fantastical imaginations and pretend this story takes place post-Season 3.  
Thanks again to everyone for your excellent reviews! Sorry I can't answer every single one like I want to, but just know that I do pay attention to them and appreciate them all! (In other words, don't stop leaving them!)_

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**Chapter V**

As he stared into Merlin's earnest and apprehensive eyes, Arthur was never more certain of anything in his life than he was of this one choice.

It all corresponded, so perfectly—all of Merlin's thoughts and feelings, still simmering and slotting into his own memories, fit seamlessly with the tentative and yet somehow formidable Merlin before him now.

It had been so difficult, sitting in that cave two hours before, looking down at the idiot Merlin he knew so well slumbering quietly on the ground and attempting to parallel him with the profound and passionate Merlin in whose deep mind he had been wandering. At some point during the dreamlike experience, he had subconsciously leant forward so that his face was pressed against the side of Merlin's turned head; it seemed almost surreal, when the visions abruptly cut off in completion, and he opened his eyes to feel two tears drop from them into Merlin's dark locks.

He had not shed a tear since childhood, but upon finding himself so humbled in the face of these startling revelations which told the astounding story of his servant, he cared not for his pride when three more noiselessly fell and were soaked into Merlin's hair.

Too weary and breathless from his information-absorbing to think clearly, he reached up with one hand to touch the back of his young servant's head, suddenly seeing the sleeping Merlin as a fragile and precious thing—even more so than he had before.

He finally regained his strength and unsteadily got to his feet. Merlin's lids fluttered slightly, one side of his mouth twitching, but he showed no other signs of waking.

It was the first time in a very long time that Arthur Pendragon did not know what to do, for the prince within him who had been trained to be nothing but logical and severe rose up, bringing with him—as he always did—doubts and worries. How could it be that this spirited, naïve boy was one and the same with a wise and complex sorcerer? How could he be sure it was not all a lie, some powerful enchantment to lead him astray?

Immediately, any and all misgivings which may have arose were silenced by his newfound conviction. Merlin was his protector; every part of him was committed to this truth beyond reverse now. He could trust Merlin and believe in his powers with no fears or hesitancy. Merlin was _his_, and would be for as long as destiny prevailed.

He could feel it, that strange, gentle power, coiled in a knot deep in his gut—a constant reminder of Merlin's abiding magic.

As that otherworldly glow warmed and eased him from within, he ensured that his servant, who looked so laughably small and young as he slept, was not overly cold in the night air. He then left Crystal Cave behind him, making for the clearing where it all had begun.

Two hours later, he watched in the cover of the darkness as his servant half-stumbled to the log near the unlit pyre and sat there, quiet and unmoving, as if in deep thought.

He could hardly see Merlin for the blackness of the night, but the younger man's mere presence felt perplexingly different than it had before. Simply knowing that his confidant sat a meager few steps away seemed to change the very air; he felt…_safe_.

This actually startled him. He had not felt truly safe since before he could remember.

He found he liked the feeling.

He could not recall exactly how long he spent lying there in the darkness, merely taking in the feel of this new, heartening connection between them and listening to Merlin's slow breathing, but then, the restful calm was suddenly broken.

"Arthur, you're not awake, are you?"

He did not answer, for the indecision in Merlin's tone sounded oddly familiar, and he could not halt his curiosity to want to see for himself what the servant was going to do.

Surely enough, a rasping voice he both did and did not recognize came from somewhere, and it was followed by a faint, whispering echo which made it almost distant,

"_Bryne."_

There was a peculiar and beautiful noise, like the tinkling of a small bell, and he could barely see two round glimmers of gold through the blackness before they vanished as quickly as they appeared.

Then a fire flickered to life, casting strange shadows into the sharp contours of Merlin's face nearby, and Arthur knew his time had come to face the younger man with his knowledge. So thinking, he rose from his place and met the servant with the first words he thought to say.

There was so much, he knew—so many, many things he felt he needed to say, so many disputes he should settle and mistakes he should repair. He had been thinking of them, considering every one meticulously for two hours, trying desperately to construct a great reveal which would put to an end all of Merlin's distresses and uncertainties to the same degree in which Arthur's bad been erased.

There was one thing, however, that slipped out before all others—the problem of Cornelius Sigan, and the faith he had failed to show in Merlin that dark day. How almost ridiculous, he thought, that what had been his atypical concern could have had so troubling an effect upon his valued servant.

To his shame, it was only one of many circumstances in which his actions had neglected to show his true motives. It was his infuriating trouble with words, he knew; how very much he wished he could voice things properly, to Merlin more than anyone else. How was it that some men were born with the gift of poetry and expression, while others did not even know how to say "Thank you" without stumbling over their pride?

How he wished he was not one of the latter, for then he could simply _tell_ Merlin all he wanted. He would describe it all, word for word, and paint pictures of his feelings in Merlin's mind the same way Merlin had for him.

But no, it seemed that it had taken all his careful consideration to simply admit that he had any feelings at all for Merlin's well-being. It would take years of practice, he felt, for him to be able to give adequate voice to how highly he regarded Merlin…

He huffed intolerantly at himself.

…_loved_ Merlin, he corrected inwardly, for there was no refusing it now—he did love Merlin, as much as he loved his own father (even more so, possibly, and that was a shock to him in itself). He had loved Merlin even before he knew the truth, before he felt _Merlin's_ love for him. Now, as the young wizard's affection settled inarguably on his mind, it reinforced his own feelings and made them all the more potent, as though, in addition to everything else, their love for one another had also united and fortified.

Then, Merlin finally conceded to Arthur's pushes, and his pleas for Arthur to trust and have faith in him despite his magic had tumbled between them. They struck Arthur as fiercely and sincerely as any one of Merlin's poignant memories had. He knew Merlin's convictions. He had felt them for himself, in all their might, within Merlin's mind…but to hear the words from the sorcerer's own mouth, in this place where he could feel the chill of the eerie night and see the sparks of the flaming branches, pulled all of those devoted thoughts and profound emotions from within them both and into the real world. The lowness of Merlin's voice, the intensity of his eyes, the severity of his posture, all converging to reveal the true Merlin—the _warlock_ Merlin—to him, as clearly as glass.

And if any part of him was unsure, Merlin sealed it again, irreversibly.

"You are my purpose, sire," his eyes, the exact changeable grey of the highland sky before an untamed and tempestuous storm, boring uncompromisingly into his own, "I have used everything I have to protect and serve you, and I won't apologize, and I won't regret it…even if you decide to kill me for it."

As that one, final vow cut the air, Arthur had the most ridiculous urge to laugh aloud. If only Merlin knew how impossible it was for Arthur to ever so much as _consider_ such an act.

He looked up again into those eyes—those bright, cool eyes—and saw reflected there every strength and weakness he had felt for himself.

He started to speak, but just as quickly realized he had no idea what he could possibly say. How could he, with his poor proficiency for expressing his feelings, explain all that was spinning in his head at that moment? How could he show Merlin all the things that would make that lingering fear in his clear eyes disappear for good?

How could Arthur tell Merlin that he had long-since noticed he slept his best when he fell asleep listening to his diligent manservant patter about his chambers? How could he explain that Merlin's quiet assurances while helping him with his armour calmed him and made him able to focus clearly before his tournaments? How could he effectively convey that Merlin had, in the space of only a few months, managed to make every part of his life easier in some way, and how that he could scarcely imagine living without his steadying presence now?

How could he tell him that Merlin made him smile—genuinely smile—more than anyone else ever had, by merely being himself with Arthur? What could he say to make Merlin see how much he appreciated the servant's lack of care for what was considered "dutiful" by the rules of the court, and that he much enjoyed being with his servant more than any one of his knights because the boy showed him no undue esteem? How could he explain the tranquil, contented feeling he got when it was only him and Merlin in his chambers, bantering about something entirely meaningless but loving the smart retorts all the same? How could he show him the perplexity he still felt, as he always had, when he wondered why Merlin was so very good and loyal to him without apparent cause or justification?

What could he do to express his gratitude for Merlin's remaining with him always, for giving him the assurance that no matter where the prince led, he would never have to look over his shoulder and wonder if Merlin was still with him? How could he thank him properly for his ageless wisdom and impeccable guidance, or for his humble courage and quiet gallantry? What words would communicate his hope that Merlin would never, _never_ change and leave him? And how could he describe the grief and aloneness he knew he would suffer if he ever did?

How could he tell this meek servant—this wonderful, unflawed _miracle_ of his own—that he would never have to question Arthur's love for him…and how to make him believe it as strongly as Arthur himself did?

Merlin had not moved, gazing intently at his master, still awaiting the answer that would either set him free or damn him to death.

Arthur exhaled a breath he did not realize he had been holding and looked Merlin directly into his deep eyes.

"Tell me everything, Merlin."

The young sorcerer blinked, expression melting into open bewilderment.

"What?" he questioned.

"You heard me." Arthur slid down so that his back was against the half-rotted log, crossing his arms behind his head and relaxing against it.

When there was no more sound, just a very loud and comprehensible silence, he glanced up to see the younger man looking more or less confused, dark brows knitted together and lips twisted with his endeavoring to decipher this sudden, dramatic change in mood.

Arthur sighed, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Merlin."

The servant looked up at his tone, arrested by his sudden revival of solemnity.

"I want to know," Arthur rephrased, grave again, voice low and expression sincere. "I want to know everything, Merlin—everything you've ever wanted to tell me, everything I've missed because of my own blindness, from the moment we met until right now."

Merlin's face began to soften, a glimmer of what appeared to be hope lightening his dark eyes; Arthur caught the barest trace of a smile.

"Everything?" the servant repeated warily.

"Don't leave out any details," he warned in answer, voice sharp and light again. "I'll even let you start with 'Once upon a time…' if you want."

The bare trace had spread into a full grin now.

"You-you mean it?" His prattling voice sounded winded with disbelief so that it was almost comical.

"Merlin, I know I say a lot of things I don't mean," he replied, half-seriously, "but I think we both know that was an obtuse question." He closed his eyes, crossing his hands behind his head again and closing his eyes, a trivial gesture of trust. "Go on, then."

Merlin stifled what sounded like a half-cry, half-laugh of astonishment, inhaled one deep breath, and began what Arthur would always remember as the beginning of them.

Merlin was, to his great surprise, a magnificent storyteller. He was not halfway through the description of Gaius' near-fatal tumble the day Merlin arrived in Camelot before the younger man had leapt to his feet in his eagerness and was standing before the fire, hands circling in the air wildly and eyes shining in the flickering glow.

Arthur watched, patently transfixed, as Merlin's words described every detail as clearly and excellently as his memories had presented them to Arthur's mind only two hours before. He listened to the still-raw guilt as the servant sat at his feet and expressed his pain at seeing Gaius ill-treated as a sorcerer from his noble efforts to protect Merlin, and saw with his own eyes the "living smoke" spell which had ignited the whole affair. He laughed aloud as Merlin mocked the gurgling voice of the revolting troll who very briefly had been Camelot's queen, and laughed harder as Merlin attempted to imitate his own expression when he discovered his father was enchanted with a woman who slept in manure. He was quiet as the grief defiled Merlin's gentle face while he talked of his life-long wish for the father who was taken from him so unfairly; then, he smiled as his friend's eyes alighted with affection for the physician who had become a father to him quite by chance. He rolled his eyes when Merlin spoke of accidentally releasing the goblin from its iron prison in the library, and forcefully slapped the back of his dark head when the sniggering servant dared to utter the words _"donkey ears_._"_ His fists clenched in response to Merlin's as the wizard's muscles tensed with the memory of prevailing over Kilgharrah and saving Camelot from the dragon's wrath.

Though he had felt the surge of the unique magic countless times through Merlin's potent memories, he was still oddly disconcerted by the morphing gold of his friend's eyes as he whispered _"Bryne"_ when the fire grew dim.

Tale after incredible tale pervaded that clearing in the woods in that night, as Merlin cavorted around the fire, acting out every narrative he could think to tell with a captivating energy only he possessed. Arthur stayed where he was and simply watched, interrupting only to laugh at some comicality or insert a clever comment here or there. This usually ended in his rolling his eyes or sighing at his friend, for most of his disruptions only served to throw an ecstatic Merlin off, and the younger man would have to think several seconds before picking up again, much to Arthur's amusement.

Finally, when the sun had risen and was shining radiantly through the treetops, indicating mid-morning, Merlin had at last depleted his seemingly bottomless supply of energy; he half-collapsed to the ground, resting his elbow on Arthur's knee and attempting to catch his breath after his unbroken line of storytelling.

Arthur probably looked rather stupid with his silly grinning, but there was no one to see but Merlin, and given that the young wizard was all but mad from a combination of whirling emotion and endless yammering about _everything_, he did not see his own dignity as mattering to either of them at the moment.

They were quiet for a long minute as both arranged their thoughts, and then Merlin tilted his head to look to his left at Arthur's expression. When their eyes met, the complete absurdity of it all—and probably a twinge of sleep deprivation—seemed to sweep over them both, and there were several following minutes of soft laughter at nothing in particular.

Merlin looked closely at Arthur, who was smiling as broadly as the servant had ever seen and shaking his head incredulously at something. He was expecting to wake at any moment and discover himself back in his bed in Camelot, for_ surely_ Arthur's genuine delight at his stories of secrets and magic must be a dream. Surely it couldn't be possible that all the strain he had been suffering, all the lies he had forced himself to tell, and all the fear he had endured for so many years had just been lifted from his shoulders so easily and painlessly. Surely there must be more to it than this….

He smiled, shaking his head and deciding that he truly did not care what had changed Arthur so—all that mattered was this, now…this quiet moment when everything was finally all right and he could _breathe_ for the first time in his life.

Greatly exhausted now but content beyond concern, Merlin pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his slim arm firmly against his strong master's to reassure himself that this was, indeed, reality.

Arthur looked at his servant when he felt his warmth touch his arm and felt a minuscule trace of sharp, yet somehow sweet magic flow into him through the contact, his smile soft and his eyes as weary and elated as Merlin felt.

"You're still an idiot, Merlin," he told him.

They were the first words the prince spoke in response to all they had shared in the hours of Merlin's storytelling, and somehow, they were perfect.

"And you're still a prat," Merlin countered, straightaway.

Arthur huffed a laugh.

"Some things may never change, I suppose," he said with an accepting sigh, standing and stretching his cramped muscles.

"No," Merlin agreed, following in his prince's example and rising. "But I have the feeling a lot is about to."

Arthur said nothing, but he had learned, if nothing else, that to doubt Merlin was to doubt wisdom.

As he glanced at his still-smiling friend, he did not think he would ever doubt him again. For once in his life, he knew he had something which would not fade or be taken from him; it was an insane thing to cling to, this camaraderie with this half-mad outlaw, but it felt so very right—as safe and effortless as breathing.

Merlin was his angel. He could no longer deny it, nor would he ever wish to.

He had never been one for prayer, but as they started on their return journey to Camelot, with Merlin hauling in his arms most of Arthur's heavy armor and babbling away about something to do with the sword called Excalibar, Arthur sent up a silent appeal that he and Merlin should stay this way for as long as the gods allowed, and that this light, happy trust would never change or weaken.

He was never disappointed.

**To be continued (to epilogue)**

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_So it seemed to me the best way to have Merlin relax into this new stage of their friendship was to have him talk himself into it, literally. It is Merlin, after all.  
*iz nervous* Well, that's pretty much the whole "reveal/confrontation" part of the story...so...I suppose I will have to take your judgment now. *hides* It may not have gone like you expected, and I really hope you're not too disappointed. *hides again*  
The only way I'll know for sure is if you review, though...so don't leave me hiding in the dark (with the lemurs)!_


	6. Epilogue

_So...16-year-old girl + overactive imagination + keen storytelling capacity = rewrite of epilogue waaaaaaaaaaay too many times.  
Not only that, but I went on vacation, started back to school, and then-horror of horrors!-Alice (aka, my laptop) decided she likes to hear herself play the tune of the start screen over and over into infinity. All in all, it's taken much too long, and I really do apologize.  
Also, according to my dictionary, the definition of "epilogue" is as follows: "a short addition to the end of a story detailing the outcome of characters, the summary of the story, etc." With this chapter, I have decided to use my poetic license and rewrite said definition as, "a long, additional chapter that's really not too much different from the rest of them."  
Heh._

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**Epilogue**

Many years later, two men lay side by side at the foot of the largest tree in Camelot.

The first, whose face was weathered and tanned but yet held a distinctive immortal youth, with a single, soft scar running over his cheek from some battle long ago, lay upon his side on the damp ground. Deep blues and regal purples characterized his garments and gave immediate testament to his title, even before one identified the heavy chain hanging around his neck, signifying the many other, heavier burdens he bore. Blonde strands of sun-lightened hair fell over his ears and across his forehead, his handsome, if somewhat aged, face holding no expression but his sapphire eyes wide and misty as he watched the man lying beside him with a gaze so concentrated it was as though he felt his companion was the last thing in the world that mattered.

As he was, at least for these few moments.

The other man was his opposite in appearance. Soft locks the color of rich ink, streaked with a touch of silver which glinted in the sun at midday, tumbled over his neck and barely brushed his narrow shoulders. The ivory skin of his face fairly glowed in sharp contrast with the dark hair along his jaw line and which made his cheekbones all the more prominent beneath his cool, clear, changeable eyes. The mystic ring of turquoise there, which mixed with the tranquil green and ancient gray to form the most intriguing eyes his friend had ever seen, was enhanced by the luxurious indigo cloak draped around his shoulders and covering his head.

The fine cloak had been a gift, given him by the king himself upon the night of his being named an esteemed member of the royal court.

The two of them were so visibly different, one so strong and the other so wise. They were as conflicting in all ways as the light of day and the dark of night—but even as there can be no night without day, nor day without night, but there must be both balancing the world together, so it was with these two friends who had found their places in this life in the refuge of one another's shadow.

Behind the blonde man, two objects glinted in the pale morning sunlight—one a priceless crown, the other a perfect sword. He let them lay unacknowledged in the moist grass, sparing not a thought for them when his friend was with him. He needed neither here.

The sorcerer turned his head ever-so-slowly to face his king, a faint smile touching his bare lips.

The king smiled in return, though he could not keep the sorrow from it as he noted that it did not seem to matter how weak his friend became or how tired he appeared; the watchfulness and calm of his tender eyes never faded or waned.

Even now, at the end, his angel remained his caring strength.

They did not speak, for there was nothing more to say. After nearly a half-century of constant companionship, all had been said and expressed that could ever be...and what could not was there in their eyes as plainly as if it was written upon parchment.

The king reached out with his left hand. The sorcerer only blinked acceptingly as warm fingers brushed a lock of dark hair from his eyes. Then, the king shuffled slightly and pressed his forehead gently against his sorcerer's temple so that a few, loose strands of dark hair caught in the lashes of his right eye, and it was a mutual, unspoken reminder of that fateful night so very, very long ago, when they were not called Great King and High Sorcerer, but only Prince and Servant—two awkward boys with enigmatic destiny and no knowledge of what they would become together. For them, there had been only the present, with no weighty regrets to overcome and extraordinary stories to tell. There had been no scars then, either exterior or interior, but it was that night, in which the prince had learnt so suddenly to love and cherish his servant more than he ever had, which fortified them to endure the battles together. It had been that night of astonishing revelations which made them strong enough together to survive so that they might bear the scars now…the scars, and the joys alike.

No one man could tell in words, should he be the most eloquent of writers with eternity in which to write, all these two men had seen and done. To unlock the secrets and mysteries held in the old eyes and written in white scars would take a magic humankind has not yet seen. One could only observe the tenderness with which the king clutched the fabric on the sorcerer's shoulder, and the tired but determined way the sorcerer petted his master's arm in reply, and try to comprehend it all. The only sure conclusion anyone could draw is this: that there is no force powerful enough to cut the invisible ties which will forever bind them together.

Not even the force of Death has that power, it would seem.

The sorcerer raised his trembling right hand, and the king felt the coldness of metal against his collarbone. The sorcerer smiled again, softly, as his eyes fell to the ring on the middle finger of his hand, where the band of polished silver gleamed even in the dim light. The seal inscribed upon it was unique to the King of Camelot, and its being upon him, the High Sorcerer, bespoke of much—most notably was the declaration it made to all who beheld it that he was a treasured possession of the king himself. He supposed it should make him feel belittled, to be the mightiest sorcerer in history past and future and to be claimed a personal belonging of another, but he had known even the moment when his master had placed the ring upon his hand directly from his own that he was a possession regarded above all others in his friend's eyes.

That had been the day after his magic had been so miraculously revealed, and he had never removed the ring since, for the then-prince had made him swear an oath that he would not. He had never quite explained himself on this matter, for even then his insistence on being obeyed without question was but the bare concern in his resolute blue eyes and his newfound aversion to his father's brutal laws against all magic made clear enough his reasons. All men would surely take heed to expose a sorcerer who wore the insignia of the champion-prince.

There was a whisper in the silence, and then a weak glow of gold before the king's eyes. A slight prick of icy-cold pain struck him, and he looked down to see the seal upon the ring had been inscribed on his flesh just over his heart. It glowed a muted purple for only a second, before the light went out and left the tattoo of it behind.

A return of the courtesy, he realized, a mark of protection for when his old guardian would be gone and unable to keep him.

A drained sigh, and he lifted his eyes to see that the pair before his had closed in pure exhaustion at even this slight exertion.

The king clenched his jaw and willed his emotions to remain at bay. He must give his sorcerer a peaceful departure, if he could do nothing else to repay him for all he had done and endured for him.

The sorcerer opened his lovely eyes again and looked deep into his king's. He smiled at him one final time, an ages-old quirk of his witty mouth, and it was ridiculous for him to think so, but the weary half-grin was so similar to the one he had when he was drunk or dizzy that the king could not contain a chuckle, however the sight broke his grieving heart further.

"Idiot," he murmured, breath ghosting against the too-cool and paling cheek.

"Prat," came the unhesitating reply, and he wanted to weep at the sound of it.

He refrained, instead blinking rapidly and inhaling the strangely bitter-sweet perfume which had always clung to the sorcerer, smelling somehow of vanilla and moonlight and something entirely indefinable, as though his magic was manifest through every sense of man so that no one ever could deny it.

It was _that voice_, he pondered silently as the sorcerer remained still and breathed slowly in his grasp, which had so long saved him through its candid guidance, and soothing consolation, and impertinent retorts, and those beautiful, beautiful spells of a wondrous magic. It had whispered words which had saved him innumerable times and in more ways than he could ever repay, and now, it was this voice which he realized he would soon miss the most, even more than the _eyes_.

Theirs was a familiar routine, this bantering game, and one which they had repeated hundreds upon hundreds of times since the day of their meeting, and the king wished with all his being that they might continue it, just once more…but the sorcerer's eyes were drifting shut again, the fond smile diminishing, and he could feel the magic slipping away from them both, draining from that place in his soul where it had resided since the moment he had been so fantastically connected to his friend..._his other half_.

So it was that, as the sun rose in the eastern sky to usher in the midday, the High Sorcerer of the Court of Camelot had at last fulfilled his destiny and entered another world, knowing beyond doubt that he had done all he was meant to do, and that he was loved and trusted unconditionally by the man who was the center of his whole existence.

The king grieved, but even so, he could not find it within himself to feel without hope, for as the sorcerer had often told him, they would meet again. Somehow, whether in the presence of the gods or in another life entirely different from this one, they would always meet again. He had promised, after all, and not once had the sorcerer ever broken his promises; his word was something upon which the king would always depend, even when the gulf of death separated them and felt as though it stretched on endlessly. If he must, the sorcerer would find a way to build a bridge over the gulf with his own two hands, and he would cross it and return to him, if no other way. The king only smiled and remembered that the mad fool was, indeed, stubborn enough to build a bridge over Death to remain at his side, and so he did not fret for the future, but rejoiced that they had fulfilled their destiny together, and that he was triumphant in his age, and he would soon follow his friend, wherever he might be.

Six months thereafter, the beloved King of Camelot was buried alongside his High Sorcerer beneath the shade of the great oak. He was buried not as King, however, but as Arthur, friend of the servant Merlin.

For this was how he saw himself, through golden eyes.

**The End**

* * *

_Several things:  
1: Setting for this chapter was inspired by this picture of traditional Merlin and Arthur: h t t p : / / w w w . t h e p e n d r a g o n . c o . u k / M e r l i n 5 . j p g. Just erase all spaces and search.  
2: Merlin's cloak, though part of the traditional legend, was directly inspired by this fanart by **pAgebReaTher**: h t t p : / / f c 0 2 . d e v i a n t a r t . n e t / f s 7 0 / f / 2 0 1 1 / 1 9 5 / 7 / d / 7 d e 2 9 9 0 c 7 d b f 5 2 e a b d 8 0 e 4 7 9 b e 3 8 f 3 0 5 - d 3 r e v e 0 . j p g. Again, just erase the spaces.  
3: I know they had pyres for the dead in Arthurian times, but I have this little notion that sometime, Merlin reads that foreign lands bury their dead, and decides he likes the idea of being "planted" better than being burnt. He convinces Arthur of the same. Ridiculous, yes, but that's my version. I might write a fic on it someday. *hehe*  
And trust me, whatever idea you had about how this epilogue would be, I probably did write it at some point, but every time, it never ended up showing what I wanted it to. That is that what happened in the previous chapters stuck with Arthur and Merlin all their lives, and that the feelings which connected them never faded away afterwards, and this was how they ended up becoming because of the strength it gave their bond.  
ANYWAYS, let me know what you think! Love you all, as you know, and thank you so much for every awesome review! I'd send every single one of you a box of magical chocolates if I could._


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